


When the sun sets...

by kanronotatsu



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Changing POV, Drabbles, Gen, anyway, could be interpreted as Fratt if you squint really hard, every encounter between Frank and Matt, or not that hard, reverse order, there's only subtext here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanronotatsu/pseuds/kanronotatsu
Summary: ...we're both the same - half in the shadows, half burned in flames.Their relationship was difficult from the beginning, but every encouter shaped them in a way.





	

9

“See you around, Red.”

These are not the most reassuring words, nor the ones he thinks he needs to hear right now. He nods either way. Not because Frank can see him, he most surely can’t, but because he needs to acknowledge it. Matt has been fighting alone. Until Elektra came around, and oh how good it felt to have someone on his side, for a change. Or maybe he was on Elektra’s side, Matt doesn’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore either, because now she is gone.

His heart breaks, it doesn’t make any sound, not even one only he could pick up. The thought raises something in him again that he’s still reluctant to acknowledge. He shouldn’t have thrown Nobu off the roof either. It felt like spitting himself in the face, after all that speech he made to Frank not so long ago. Matt also remembers what Frank had said just the previous night: “If you cross over to my side of the line, you don’t get to come back from that.” And then earlier it was _you’re one bad day away from being me_ , and Matt wonders if this day was that day? He shivers, he feels it, that thin line between them disappearing slowly. Maybe they _are_ the same. It scares him for a few moments, just until he can hear the sandpaper voice carried by the wind. _“See you around, Red.”_

That’s right. Someone was actually looking out for him, from across another rooftop, slinging a sniper rifle. And Matt has to admit that it feels good. It shouldn’t, because people are dead, but you can’t choose how you feel. Relieved. That’s how he feels. And when those bullets ripped into the bodies of the Hand ninjas, shattering skulls - it’s a clear, distinct sound - Matt might have even thought “good riddance”. He will have a lot of things to get off his mind and soul during his next confession. But the truth is the truth, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Matt feels relieved, and smiles in a crooked way, full of grief and with a heavy heart. Frank Castle was looking out for him. Frank Castle killed to protect and help him. Same or opposite, Frank was there for him when it counted. And it feels _right_.

So he nods.

* * *

8

“Don’t shoot him, Frank! Frank!”

The voice that cuts through the red blood haze of fury over his mind belongs to the last person he wishes to see that night.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!”

The gun in his hand shakes just a tiny bit as a long sigh escapes his lips. _Red_. It’s all he can see, and how fitting that the man he nicknamed Red comes along at the last moment again. Frank doesn’t turn, he doesn’t need to, he knows what he would see. He can hear the panting, Red must’ve ran all the way here from god knows where. Frank couldn’t care less. The man quivering at his feet, shaking with fear, bleeding from two gunshot wounds holds all his attention.

“Get outta here, Red.” he growls.

Frank knows Red won’t do as he’s told. He can’t really blame the man, after all he himself finds it hard to do as he is told these days. They seem to be in agreement over that at least.

“He’s lying, Frank.”

He wishes Red wouldn’t call him that. It feels - intimate somehow, in ways he cannot really grasp himself. It just feels wrong, like the other could get under his skin, inside his head, the way he says his name all the damn time. So soft, smooth, and soothing. _Frank._ He shudders.

“We’re here for the same reasons, alright? I want the Blacksmith just as much as you do, but he’s not him.”

Frank has to sneer at that. _“Just as much as you do.”_ Bullshit. What could Red know about how he feels? What he really _wants_?

“I know when someone’s telling the truth, Frank. He’s not.”

“Bullshit! Just get outta here!”

Frank knows it’s futile to resist. He’s not stupid, he’s a rational, thoughtful man, and the things Red tells him worms their way inside his head. The red haze is all but gone. He knows he cannot convince himself anymore that he caught the real Blacksmith. But he’ll be damned if he won’t try.

“He’s not the man you came for, Frank.”

“It’s me, I swear!”

There, a shred of hope. The man must really want to die. Then why not grant him that wish, while also getting a momentary satisfaction. A second of peace. Just a fragment of a second. Just let him believe that he kills the man responsible for _their_ deaths. Words reverberate in his skull. _“He’s lying, Frank.”_ He asks anyway, pressing the gun into the man’s forehead stronger.

“Are you lying to me?” The man shrinks away from him in fear, but doesn’t answer.

“Are you lying to me?”

“He’s not the Blacksmith, put the gun down.”

Red’s voice drops an octave as Frank shifts and stands up. The gun is still pointing at the man, but Frank knows that he’s lost the moment. There won’t be no moment of peace, because this man is not the one he’s looking for. But that doesn’t mean he won’t die.

“Either way…”

“You kill him, we have nothing.” _Oh so now it’s “we”, is it, Red?_

“... you die.”

He should have seen it coming. At least he should have predicted a move like this from Red, he’d seen it before. But when the hammer hits his hand, knocking the gun out of it, Frank feels his anger spike. Not just anger, desperation too. And most of all, exasperation. For lack of anything better to do he kicks the man in the head and finally turns to Red.

“You just couldn’t let it be, could you? You just couldn’t…”

The rest happens quickly. Frank lets the rage inside carry him, and that is a mistake, he leaves too many openings, and Red takes advantage of all of them. And it’s not like he earnestly wants to kill Red, it’s just that he needs that pressure off his chest, just off him. That’s all. He eventually calms down to the point where he’s smart enough not to keep getting his ass whooped by Red any longer.

“You happy now, huh?! Piece of shit.”

He’s sitting on the ground, watching Red looking down on him, shredding his every argument to pieces with pinpoint clear logic, like he can read his goddamn mind. Annoying, but Frank lets himself relax. It just breaks out of him, that subconscious plea, the desperation, the need for someone to truly _understand_ . Red, he says he does, but Frank knows it cannot be true. _Loss doesn’t work the same way for everyone._

Frank wonders what could’ve made Red say something like “maybe your way is what it’s gonna take.” It feels wrong, Frank has to admit, these words coming from him. The guy… he’s not like this. He shouldn’t be saying this, not after the bullshit he rattled off while chained to a chimney, about the sanctity of human life and that stuff with the light and whatnot. Frank - however stupid it might be - came to acknowledge the guy, and would even respect his choice to not kill if he didn’t get in his way every damn time. Anyhow, Red shouldn’t compromise those ideals of his. Betraying your own self is surely not the way to go.

“Red, just this once? No, no, no, no, no, no, Red. That’s… That’s not how it works. It’s just… You cross over to my side of the line, you don’t get to come back from that. Not ever.”

There’s a moment of silence. Frank wonders if Red understood. _Either you come over, or stay away. You cannot ropedance your way through this one._ A few weeks ago he would’ve done - and did - anything to get Red to stand by his side. Or get the half-assed vigilante off the streets for good, and not in a gentle way. And now… Look at him now. Trying to actually dissuade the bastard from taking the way he chose. Yeah, that’s right, he’s trying to keep Red away from the shit, the deep, the darkness. God knows, Frank has no idea why. It just feels right that way. When Red announces that cars are approaching, with armed men inside - _how the fuck does he know these things?_ \- and suggests that they run, Frank wishes he could go. Would be nice.

Frank cracks the tiniest bit of a smile when he hears Red’s surprised yelp and the following splash of water. There are just things a man has to do alone. He hopes that Red understands. He hopes that when they meet again, it won’t be as enemies. If he makes it out alive, that is. _If..._

* * *

7

Matt stands still and lets the roar inside the courtroom wash over his senses. The many heartbeats spiking, skipping, drumming a nervous staccato cacophony inside his skull. The voices tremble, with passion, with fear, and for one person, with rage. Matt isn’t quite sure that Frank means what he says, though. Among all the furiously beating hearts Frank’s is the only one that remains steady, calm even. He shouldn’t be so calm, not when… Not when he just damned himself in front of the whole room, the judge and the jury,  in front of Karen, Foggy and Matt. It’s like the man, despite what he just shouted, went crazy. Crazy with rage. But no, Frank’s heart drums out a steady, slow beat, something that Matt came to recognize as his own, this heartbeat that only changes when his family is mentioned. Frank’s not nervous, not at all. He does this for a very good reason, for sure. But this time Matt cannot bring himself to care, to think deeper about the Punisher’s reasons. He’s tried everything, hell, he would’ve even helped the man avoid the damned prison, for God’s sake. But Frank… Matt feels himself getting angrier than what is reasonable. His teeth grind down on one another, jaws tightening, and as Frank is being hauled away Matt fights with the urge to punch him. Repeatedly, until the stupid leaves him for good.

Matt huffs in exasperation and swears to himself that he will no longer have anything to do with Frank “Stubborn Idiot” Castle and his decisions. The man can go to prison, get himself a death sentence for all he cares. There are some people you just cannot save. From themselves, mostly. He puts his hands on his hips, a sure sign for anyone who knows him of annoyance, disappointment, and… and feeling utterly powerless in the situation. It irks him. In the deepest parts of his mind he deliberately ignores the feeling that something’s _wrong_.

So when Frank escapes from prison, and Matt stumbles upon the connection to Fisk, he feels like a total idiot.

* * *

6

There’s a tiny fraction of a second when Frank thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. The first time he met this lawyer - _whatshisname_ \- he hadn’t really been paying any attention. Not to any one of the three. But now they are face to face and Frank is actually listening. His mind is racing, about something totally different, there are choices he has to make, but then the lawyer speaks, and Frank thinks he has heard that voice before.

“...Frank. May I… may I call you Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“Frank, we...”

He isn’t listening to the rest of the speech. Instead he’s digging inside his memory, to find where he could’ve heard this voice before. Smooth and soft. So soft, like velvet on the inside of his skull… And then it clicks. _Frank._ He hears his name repeated over and over in that same voice. In that slightly infuriating, but nevertheless soothing tone. Frank leans back in his chair, slightly amused. He looks back up at the lawyer, still talking about some psycho bullshit, holding onto his white cane. _So he’s really not a shrink._

* * *

5

_"One batch, two batch, penny and dime.”_

The voice carries back to him, even if he’s still some distance away. The whispered words of a man Matt intends to save. He’s not so sure, though, about what he should be saving Frank from. Himself? The Irish? Both? Maybe right now the Irish threat is the most urgent. Or not, considering that Frank is already free, have shot at least three of them, and is about to kill another two. And most likely the rest of the gang too, if he can. Matt arrives just in time to knock unconscious the two men waiting to charge in on Frank, and prevent the shootout.

The scent of blood and sweat invades his nostrils momentarily, all coming from Frank, who had discarded the wooden board he was hiding behind before. Matt hears others approaching, but for the time being he focuses on the injured, bleeding Punisher. _What a pretentious name_ , he thinks for the hundredth time already. Frank steps back a bit, as if unsure about Matt’s intentions.

“They’re gonna pay. Every single goddamn one of them.”

Matt knows what he means. He doesn’t argue for once, but won’t agree either, at least not in the way Frank thinks he should.

“They will.” The footsteps approaching them get closer. “But not tonight. Move.”

He gestures towards the wall, and is glad to hear Frank limp towards it to take cover. There’s a crunch in his bones, unnatural, something happened to his foot, and he probably has a few ribs broken too, not to mention the gunshot wound on his side. Still, he’s not about to faint or die yet, which is good. Matt hides beside the archway, waiting for the enemy to walk in and past him before attacking. He keeps a part of his focus on Frank, monitoring the other’s behaviour and physical state to know when something’s wrong. The only thing that’s wrong, though, is Frank’s insistence on killing everyone. Matt turns away from his opponent for a second to throw his baton and knock the gun out of Frank’s hand. It seems that the man doesn’t even have the strength anymore to be angry at him for this. But fatigue and blood loss apparently can’t deter Frank from his goal. He picks up a hammer from a table - Matt doesn’t want to know for what it had been used before -, and is about to bash a head in with it. Matt rips it out of his hand. A brief, tense silence ensues.

“No killing.”

The mockery is overflowing from Frank’s voice when he speaks. “Altar boy.”

One last man knocked unconscious, and all the Irish are down. Matt listens for a second just to be sure, then turns his attention towards Frank. The man is kneeling, wheezing, clearly in a bad shape, Matt doesn’t even need his superhuman senses to know that. The smell of blood is still strong around him, and most of it is his own. Matt knows that the wound on his torso will need medical attention soon. He can practically feel how utterly tired Frank is. Simply drained of energy.

“Alright, let’s get out of here. Come on.”

Frank accepts the hand Matt offers, leaning on him with all his weight as they drag his beaten up corpus out of that basement. They get as far as the cemetery, how ironic. They even find the mood to crack some jokes and laugh together.

“You would’ve made one hell of a marine, Red.” Frank compliments him and that somehow puts Matt at ease.

It almost feels like they could be friends. _In another lifetime maybe,_ Matt thinks.

When he asks the question, he doesn’t really expect an answer. He still remembers the rooftop, and how Frank told him to stop digging. So it comes as a surprise when Frank starts talking. Matt doesn’t stop him, just listens as the words pour out of the man, because he feels that Frank needs this. His heart breaks for the man, the loss he had suffered, and he cannot stop a few tears from rolling down his face. Frank doesn’t see it, he’s barely conscious now. Matt wants to say something to him, but in the end he doesn’t. What could he say, anyway? He’s lost for words.

“I think I’m done, Red. I think I’m done.”

* * *

4

“What kind of a choice is that?!”

It’s no kind of a choice. It’s not even a choice, really. It’s just a necessity, something to take upon your soul, the price you pay to keep the streets clean. To do the right thing. Whoever said that it was easy? It shouldn’t be. Red doesn’t see that yet, not yet. He’s too preoccupied with delusions about his own worth to see that human life is not sacred. It’s cheap, it can be taken in a second, without a moment’s hesitation, and that’s it. That’s all, nothing less, nothing more. The choice isn’t whether to take a life or not. It’s _which_ life to take or let be taken. The life of scumbags, like Grotto and the gangs; or of the innocent, the bystanders, the collateral damage, the victims? For Frank it’s an easy choice. He doesn’t even think much about it, he said that to Red earlier. And no, he doesn’t see that they deserve another chance. To try? Try what? Frank just doesn’t understand how Red can be so _blind_ , so infuriatingly incapable to just see that there is no good left in these people. No tiny flicker of light snuffed out. No nothing. Frank doubts that there ever was something like that in them.

Red has to make a choice. And it’s not gonna be easy. Frank has come to terms with the possibility that Red might just shoot him and not Grotto. He doesn’t leave the guy very many choices anyway. And he sees the desperation, how Red struggles with the choice, how he’s trying to get free from it, but it chains him down quite literally. Frank is not happy with this, he doesn’t do it for the kicks, oh no. He’s intent on teaching a lesson, to help Red become something else, something that’s not a half-assed, self-proclaimed hero with his head up his ass. Frank thinks he has forced Red into a corner where his options are limited to kill or let die. What he doesn’t count on is the third choice which Red eventually chooses. To remain half-assed and try to save a life. Futile, really, Frank is a bit disappointed if he’s being honest.

He shoots Grotto just before Red clashes into him, slamming their bodies to the ground. Frank is surprised by the ferocity Red displays, his punches are packed with a new energy, strength that wasn’t there before. And then Frank sees it. Why Red was so annoying, so infuriating with his soft-spoken speech, with his stupid ideals. They are of the same material, Red and him. The anger, the fury seething under Red’s skin is familiar to Frank. He has it too, but Red is different, he tamed that fury, he reigned it in, putting it to use, not letting it take control. Frank, as he’s pounded into oblivion by Red’s fists, feels a kind of respect growing for the guy. He’s not just empty talk and half measures, it seems. He actually means what he says, and despite that anger inside him, he manages to keep to his word. That’s admirable. Frank realises now how fundamentally true were his words from earlier: _You’re one bad day away from being me._ He’s not sure that he likes the implications anymore.

When Red goes to take care of Grotto - crying over spilled beans in Frank’s opinion - he gets back on his feet, his work is not finished. The explosion draws the Dogs of Hell out to the street, ripe for the taking. Red steps in again, but Frank manages to knock him to the ground, and turns the lights on. That little rhyme slips from his lips almost unconsciously while looking down at the gathered crowd of scumbags through the scope of his rifle. There’s rustling behind him, but he has no time to react before the wrench collides with his injured arm. As he turns, the rifle flies out of his hand, knocked away by the chain wielded skillfully by Red. Same chain wounds around his neck again, and in the next moment he’s down on his knees with Red behind him, pulling on the cold metal links cutting off his air.

“You’re done now, Red. They’re coming for you. Only way you get out of this is if you grow wings.”

He hears a frustrated groan escape the other man before Red knocks him out.

* * *

3

“I think you’re a half-measure. I think you’re a man who can’t finish the job. I think that you’re a coward. You know the one thing you just can’t see? You know you’re one bad day away from being me.”

The words cut deep inside Matt, no matter how much he tries to convince himself they aren’t true. He feels the other man’s voice coming from somewhere close, he kneeled down in front of him probably so they can talk eye-to-eye. That rough, sandpaper voice grinds inside his skull with a vengeance, giving form and life to things, thoughts, that Matt has been desperately snuffing out in himself. It’s scary, hearing them from someone who is the opposite of him in every sense. Someone who takes a completely different angle on justice.

Matt breathes in, then out. He doesn’t say anything, there are just no words he can press out now. The other doesn’t have to know how bad Matt took his words. _Who’s the shrink here?_ A noise gets his attention, giving leverage for his thoughts to diverge from the path they started on.

“Someone’s coming.”

The other man clearly doesn’t take him seriously, as he can’t hear the approaching footsteps yet.

“Shit. I guess I better make a run for it.”

“Hey, don’t hurt him.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s hope he doesn’t give me reason to.”

The old man’s entrance to the roof is unexpected, but the shooter deals with it quite skillfully, Matt judges. He struggles to get the chains off, even with the warning, but immediately stops when he accidentally makes a noise, and right after hears a hammer of a gun thumbed back. Matt stills and waits. The damned chains will not be coming off anytime soon, it seems. He catches a part of the conversation between the shooter and the old man, and now he has a name attached to the already familiar heartbeat, rough voice, and the curious combination of the smell of gunpowder, sweat, aftershave, and coffee. _Frank._

Matt leans his head back against the chimney and sighs. _It will be a long night._

* * *

2

They crash through the glass, the shards raining down as the ground meets them with a cold and hard embrace. Frank loses consciousness for a second only. When he blinks his eyes open, his body suddenly screams out in pain at various places. He moves his fingers slowly, then pushes himself up on his elbows. There he needs to take a break, to evaluate his injuries - they don’t seem too grave - and to take a look at the figure lying next to him. The bastard in the red suit is struggling to his feet already, so Frank does that too. An array of splinters rain down from his coat as he stands up. He sees the other man turn towards him, his breath laboured, panting. Frank steadies himself and takes a step, ready to engage in a fight again. The other follows his movements, they are circling each other like two animals. The way the guy has his head cocked slightly to the side reminds Frank of a bird or something. Then he stops suddenly, stumbles in his step like he’s about to faint. He doesn’t, but raises his hands to his head, and looks disoriented, slightly panicked. Frank doesn’t hesitate to use the opening this provides him. Last time he faced the guy - he calls him Red in his head - Frank had left him to his fate after shooting him in the head. Although that wasn’t entirely his fault, to be honest. Apparently, Red didn’t die. Now the time has come that they talk. This time with their mouths, not with their fists.

A few minutes later, when the police finally approach the building, they are already gone.

* * *

1

Matt hears the calmly thumping heartbeat on the rooftop, going steady and strong. And the furiously beating ones down on the street, sometimes fluttering in fear and sudden panic. He knows Karen’s heartbeat, he’s familiar with it, and he doesn’t like to hear her so scared. On the other hand, whoever is after her and their newly acquired client, Grotto - his heartbeat too is very far from steady -, that person is not afraid. More like eerily calm and collected. Matt has learned to make assumptions about people from their heartbeats, and he guesses that the shooter is someone who is already used to battle situations. And more worrying: to taking human life. Matt has to hurry if he wants to stop him from killing Grotto and Karen.

When his feet connects with the rifle’s barrel he finally hears a spike in the enemy’s heartbeat. There’s a grunt which sounds frustrated, irritated, and the strong smell of gunpowder, sweat, and… coffee? Matt has no time to get stuck upon details, though. His opponent is skilled and strong, the punches he receives are brutal, and if he wasn’t wearing his Daredevil suit he’d have a few bruised ribs by now. His suspicion was correct, the shooter is trained, probably military. Matt monitors his heartbeat, and it’s only slightly elevated, just enough for his blood to pump a little more energy and oxygen into his muscles. And he’s winning. Matt makes a mistake, gets too close, and the other uses this opportunity, throwing him onto the wall, delivering a punch strong enough to pull the fight out of Matt for a while.

There’s no follow-up, though. The moment he’s on the ground and not getting back up immediately,  the shooter walks away. Matt doesn’t know if he’s glad or angry for being taken this lightly. Either way, he gets himself together, hauls himself up again to follow the shooter’s footsteps echoing off the rooftops.

\--- 

Frank thinks he won this round. He hadn’t planned this day to go the way it did. Grotto, the slick bastard, got away. He was supposed to be an easy target, and yet… Frank fumes silently inside. That woman with the blond hair and the guy in the red suit are both protecting someone unworthy. Why are they doing this? That guy is a scum, belongs with his buddies in the morgue, and yet, and yet… Frank grunts softly, his steps leading away from the fight he just had. That guy in the red suit… Daredevil or what the fuck he is called. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” - _what a pretentious name._ Fighting with his bare fists, putting criminals in the hospital, never in the morgue. A coward, apparently, judging from what Frank has read about him so far. Too afraid to take a life, playing the boyscout and the glorified hero. Frank’s fists clench just by thinking about it. The rage boils inside him, threatening to spill, and then who knows what will happen. That boyscout should be damned glad Frank left him- No, that isn’t right. However infuriating Daredevil is for Frank, he’s not a bad guy, not meant to be killed. Not for him to kill, at least.

His thoughts cut in half as the other body rams into him. _Fucking tenacious bastard_. They fight again, this time, however, Frank feels himself in the losing position. The other one can pack a punch, that’s for sure, and even better, can take those punches too. And Frank doesn’t hold back on him, oh no. Even so… The suit must be made of a kind of protective gear. It takes the brunt of his hits, dissipating the force behind them. Soon he’ll have no other choice, but...

When Frank hits the ground he reaches for his gun holstered to his ankle. Motion stops for a few seconds as the two adversaries stare at each other. Frank takes the time to size up his opponent as he’s standing there, panting, frozen in the state Frank knows well too; _what now_ ? Staring down the barrel of a gun you have limited options, and hesitation can be your undoing. If you’re new to the sensation, that is. Frank cracks a half smile, half sneer at the guy. He looks so ridiculous, with the tiny horns on the mask and with those red eyes - _what does he see through those anyway_ ? Red, probably. For the sake of a grim joke, Frank playfully utters _bang_ , and enjoys the knee-jerk reaction from this “devil”. He wonders if the mask is bulletproof - as he guesses that the other parts of the suit are - and fires off a warning shot. Or at least he’s meant it to be a warning shot, but the guy - _Red_ , that’s a better fitting name than Daredevil, Frank thinks - moves into it. The bullet connects with his forehead, and he stumbles, falling over the low wall separating one roof from another with a surprised cry. Frank exhales sharply. _Dammit._ He really didn’t plan the day to go like this. Although he has a feeling that they will cross paths again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. This is mainly how I interpreted Matt and Frank's very intirguing relationship.  
> And I think the song from Tamer (from which the title is taken, Beautiful Crime) fits them somehow. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated. :)


End file.
